Glistening hot
white flour
baked
with salt
and sea oats, stirred
by continuous breeze with
astonishingly
turquoise water.
But there’s a rest place.
It’s been here all these years.
Why did we miss some?
And what if we hadn’t?
“Nostalgia” comes from
ancient words
meaning
“return home” and
“pain”.
I read a sign.
Those cheerful green parakeets –
we called them parrots –
with their short, high, squawking language,
are transplants from South America,
But this
became
their home.
If I had never stopped
coming down the Florida road –
Family migration for a regular filling
of delight, excitement satisfied –
Would I feel
the pain
of returning to this
piece of home?
